A Cradle, A Casket
by phollie
Summary: From cradle to casket, Elliot Nightray has always been brilliant. A life chronicle of Elliot's experiences with the piano, his family, and Leo.


I'm so emotionally drained from writing this that I can't even give a proper intro. Just...Elliot and...pianos and... /dies

The title to each section is based off of piano compositions by Goldmund. Beautiful music, my god.

I own nothing.

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><p><strong>.a cradle, a casket<strong>

/

i. pine view

There's a boy at the piano, and his name is Elliot Nightray. Last Tuesday was his sixth birthday, but he's still unable to shake off the glee that strikes every young child on this particular day of the year – the day in which they were born into a world of light, and perhaps some shadows if they come from certain places; but as it is, Elliot Nightray was born solely into the light, as his brothers and sisters always tell him, and for that, he is very pleased.

Ah, but yes. This boy, with eyes like springtime and hair that spits out in wild cowlicks all about his neck, is sitting at the piano. For _this_, you see, he is not pleased; there's a beginner's scorebook spread out on the ledge, speaking to him in a language full of disjointed symbols and curly-cues and curious little bars and dots, and he hates them all. They're strange, they're _wonky. _Ernest tells him that he's going to learn how to read music, but that's simply absurd, because who _reads_ music anyway? Strange people, that's who. Elliot may be young, but he's quite confident in the fact that music is nothing like those stories that Vanessa reads to him to put him to sleep (which never works, because then he has too many ideas and adventures in his head to even _consider_ something as droll as sleep), or those that his brothers attempt to walk through with him as his own clumsy tongue trips and stutters over the syllables. Music is meant to be listened to, not written down, and it is for that very reason that Elliot is _not _a happy child right now.

"That's a sour face if I've ever seen one." To his right, Ernest sits, a bright and smiling thing even in spite of Elliot's own huffy pouting. "Come now, Elly, don't frown! You know who you look like when you do that?" A scandalous smirk curls on Ernest's lips as he glances over his shoulder before looking back at Elliot, leaning in close to whisper, "Your _sister_."

A few feet away, Vanessa huffs out an irate breath and an "I heard that!" before taking a flustered seat on the piano bench to Elliot's left. Her eyes flit down to look at him, and Elliot, assuming the honest beauty in everything at his age, thinks she looks lovely today. If he were in a better mood, he'd tell her, but as it is, he's an _angry child _right now. Just to drive this point home even further, he crosses his arms over his chest and pulls an even more sour face, glaring down at his swinging feet as they struggle to reach the floor. Someday, his legs will be long enough to touch the floor while sitting. It will be a most glorious day, he's already decided.

"Now, then," Vanessa and Ernest spout out in perfect unison. Ernest seems to think this is right amusing, chuckling as he reaches behind Elliot to pat her on the shoulder, although Vanessa's face deadpans as if thrown headlong into the pits of woe. Elliot would giggle at the exchange if he weren't so determined to be an _angry child_, but his lips shake with a stifled smile all the same.

"_Now_, then," Ernest repeats, all on his own this time, "why is my little brother in such a foul mood? You've always been excited for your piano lessons, haven't you?"

Elliot lets a dramatic pause lengthen between them (he's been considering an acting career once he's tall enough to touch the floor while sitting) before leaning forward and plunking his elbows on the piano, keys clanging in an ugly cacophony of jumbled notes. "I've decided," he says, "that reading music is _wonky_."

Ernest laughs openly at that, while Vanessa opts for covering her mouth with her little white fist as if trying to swallow down her own giggle. "Wonky?" Ernest asks, a warm chuckle bridging the letters of the word together. "Where on earth did you pick up that sort of word?"

"I made it up," Elliot says with a defiant lift of his head. What exactly he's defying is unclear to him, but he keeps it up anyway; he really does feel like his sister, though, and that's a tad embarrassing. "Reading music is for wonky people and I don't _like_ it."

"Well, that's always the least favorable part of learning the piano, isn't it? Vanessa despised reading music when she first learned the violin, but listen to her now!" Ernest pauses, his gaze mirthful and teasing as it drifts over to Vanessa. "Ah, but perhaps that's not the best example, now is it…"

"Ernest!" is his sister's shrill retort as she reaches around to thump the eldest brother on the back. Elliot briefly wonders if they'll knock him off the bench entirely, what with their constant reaches and grabs behind him.

"Sensitive, are we?" Ernest chimes, his voice bell-like and playful as he idly drums his fingertips atop a major key. "But yes, Elly," he goes on, "while it may be very dull right now, I can assure you that you'll appreciate these lessons once you can start making your _own_ music. How does that sound, hm?" He lightly ruffles Elliot's wild hair. "My little brother making masterpieces on this piano…I think it sounds brilliant, don't you, Nessa?"

"I can do that already!" Elliot says before Vanessa can respond. Eager to assert his words, he begins playing a wild, dizzy something of a song for the entire manor to hear, hands flying over keys, fingers tripping and stumbling their way through chords he makes up all on his own. It's loud, and it's preposterous, but it's passionate in its broken honesty even if the creation in itself is ear-splitting.

Elliot plays tirelessly for a whole minute straight, and wouldn't have stopped for days had Ernest not chuckled and pulled his hands away, warning him of burning his fingertips down to the bone.

/

ii. alberta

Vincent is a curious boy. He's skinny in a way that isn't like Gilbert, who is just skin and bones due to stress and nerves and picky eating; no, Vincent is more like a rail-thin wind shaped to slink and strike, with legs that are lean instead of bony and hands that don't shake or clasp together nervously when looking up at someone. His hair is long and sleek like a girl's, tied back in ribbons or kept loose about his shoulders, yet he never takes offense when Ernest tells him that he might as well have breasts for how girly he is. (Vanessa always gets a foul look about her face, though, every time.)

Truth be told, Elliot can't help but be relieved that Vincent truly is nothing like Gilbert, even though he sometimes gets this strange feeling that Vincent wishes he could be.

It's with this thought in mind that Elliot finds Vincent flopped on his stomach on the chaise lounge, one arm dangling over the edge as he traces patterns on the floor with his fingertip. He's as dreamy and distant as ever, decked in secondhand clothing but looking more natural in it than its previous owners ever could. For all his strangeness, Elliot thinks, Vincent always looks so at ease, so unfazed, even when Elliot halts in the doorway and says, "You'll get a stomachache if you don't sit upright after eating dinner."

It's a perfectly logical concern in Elliot's mind, and yet Vincent doesn't even look up at him in response. All he does is lie there in a boneless heap, painting invisible portraits into the floor. "Elliot," he says quietly, "might I ask you something?"

But Elliot doesn't like questions, especially when they come from Vincent. "What?"

After a moment, Vincent turns his head to look at him, and Elliot doesn't think he likes whatever expression is on his face right now. It's neither happy nor sad, neither angry nor accusing – it's simply a _look_. It makes him nervous. Vincent's eyes are bright and searing behind the wispy fall of his bangs, a sudden intensity jolting their color to life. "Why are you so nice to my brother?"

Well, that's a stupid question. Elliot furrows his brow, confused. "Huh?"

"You want something from him, don't you?" Even with hard edge that Vincent's voice has taken on, he's still so languid, so ethereal in the way his hair tumbles over one shoulder, every limb loose and relaxed and reminding Elliot all the more of some drowsy feline.

"My brother is a very kind person," Vincent goes on softly. "He would never hurt anyone even if they had him pinned to the ground and begging for his life. He's a _good_ person."

Elliot blinks. "I know."

"No, you don't. You don't know my brother. No one does." A lock of hair falls over Vincent's face, obscuring his golden eye until all that cuts out is red. "No one but _me_."

"Well, of course you know him, he's your brother," Elliot says simply.

It's Vincent's turn to blink at him now. Elliot takes this as his cue to keep going before Vincent starts spouting more weird words. "I mean," he mumbles, "it's not like Gilbert's ever done anything wrong, so…"

Vincent stares at him for a long, tense moment before sitting up straight and asking, "What about me? Have _I_ ever done anything wrong?"

Elliot squirms uncomfortably at the inquiry, but answers honestly anyway. "I…I think cutting up teddies is usually a bad thing, but…" Elliot shrugs, averting his eyes. "But I guess there are worse things you could be doing, right?"

If Vincent is still staring at him, Elliot pays it no mind as he walks into the parlor and takes a seat before the piano. Clearing his throat, he makes himself as comfortable as one can when in the same room as Vincent and says, "No one else is home and Gilbert's sleeping, so you'll have to be my audience tonight." He flashes a quick glance over his shoulder at his sibling, who stares back at him unblinkingly, mouth parted and eyes wide. He looks, for lack of a better word, _young_.

For a moment, Elliot swears he sees him smile just a little, but he won't hold it against him.

/

iii. larrows of the field

Gilbert is standing in the doorway of the parlor with his sad, heavy eyes that never seem to lift from the floor. Elliot wants to be able to wonder why, but he never has to think too hard – it's because of his siblings, with their hostile glares and their under-the-rug insults that they assume get past Elliot's ears when slung at the dinner table but never, _ever_ go unnoticed. He knows that – he's not _stupid_ – which is why he doesn't pester Gilbert for the details as he looks at him from across the room, fingers freezing over black and white keys.

For a twenty-year-old, Gilbert looks awfully young right now, and so very small. He's always been a willow, a picture of pale limbs that seem too long for the rest of him and a gentle, pallid face; but right now, he just looks meek and tired and uncertain, a flower that's been kept away from the sunlight and left to wither in shadow.

Elliot knows he hates it here.

"Sorry," Gilbert says quietly, head bowing. "I didn't know you were in here."

"I'm always in here." Elliot huffs out a small laugh. "You know that."

Gilbert seems to consider speaking again, only to decide on giving a quick nod of his head and turning to leave. Elliot stops him with a half-impatient call of his name, still lingering on that precipice of softness that always seems to haunt him whenever Gilbert is around, and is served with his brother turning back around to look at him, his eyes wary like a child waiting to be yelled at. Elliot stifles a sigh and clears his throat instead, shrugging lightly. "Want me to…play you something?"

In the low light, Gilbert's expression shifts from nervous to a soft sort of surprise, eyes widening and mouth parting. He looks unwell and drained, what with the dark circles under his eyes, and the shadows blooming around him do nothing for his melancholy air, but that's not what matters; what matters is that Gilbert heard him.

"That would – " Gilbert pauses to clear his throat when his voice rasps out dead and dry. "That would…be nice, yes."

"Good." Sitting up straighter on the piano bench, Elliot wiggles his fingers to loosen them up, knuckles cracking in response. When Gilbert doesn't move from his spot under the archway, he rolls his eyes and mutters, "Well, don't just stand there like a knob, come over _here_."

Gilbert mumbles some quick apology under his breath before making his way into the parlor. Elliot scoots over to direct him to sit by him, and Gilbert abides without a word of protest. It's not as if Elliot thought he would give one, but, well, sometimes he _worries_, and…

To get his mind off the matter, Elliot exhales a decisive breath and tests out a chord, letting it resound softly before speaking. "I've never played this before, so you should feel pleased to be my first listener."

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Gilbert smile just a little. Does that mean he's happy? "I am."

Elliot watches him for another moment, as if challenging him to see if he'll up and run out on him – Gilbert, after all, always seems to be on the verge of bolting off somewhere, of fizzling himself down to raw nerves alone. Sometimes, Elliot thinks his brother's eyes are a little mad, their gold suddenly hiked up feverish and wild and brimming with something that he doubts Gilbert himself even understands; but as it is, he looks as if he's in one piece now, and so Elliot clings onto that while he has it and begins to play.

It's a quiet song that blooms beneath his fingertips, neither sad nor happy but lurking somewhere nameless in between. It's a song that conjures thought and memory but not fear; it soothes and washes, calms and softens, and Elliot makes it up entirely on the spot. Gilbert's staid silence and the twists of shadows bending about the room tell his hands where to go, paired with the gentle air of melting tension above their heads as Gilbert slowly leans forward and folds his arms atop the piano, nestling his head into the crook of his elbow. Elliot can feel his eyes on him the whole time, sleepy and sorrowful for a reason that Elliot thinks best not to ask him about. He doesn't need to, not with Gilbert.

He loses track of how long he plays for, but eventually lets the song taper off into silence once the tips of his fingers begin tingling as if warmed from a bitter chill. Staring down at his hands, he takes a long, steadying breath through his nose and says, "Well?"

When Gilbert doesn't answer right away, Elliot turns his head to look at him, only to find the man's eyes misty and bright, tears clinging to his long eyelashes as if afraid to let go. He's crying so quietly that Elliot wonders if he even notices it at all, for his expression is unbroken in its perhaps-too-thoughtful calm; his cheeks aren't even flushed, usually a telltale signal of his whirlwind emotions that even Elliot can't rival.

Elliot truly doesn't know what he's going to do with him. But at least they have this.

"Fine, fine," he sighs out, resetting his fingers atop the keys as he straightens again. "I'll keep playing, goodness. No need to _cry_ about it."

/

iv. image – autumn – womb

One thing about Leo that Elliot has taken notice of over the past couple of weeks is that he's an absolute mess. He's uncombed (simply because of his hatred of hairbrushes), underfed (simply because of his disinterest in eating), and absolutely cantankerous at the worst of times (simply because…well, Elliot actually doesn't know the reason behind that, which makes it all the more agitating).

But another thing he can't overlook is that Leo is _brilliant. _He's as brilliant as he is insufferable, which somehow makes him all the more enthralling. At one moment, Elliot is baffled by his tongue-in-cheek defiance, only to fall victim to his beguiling charm in the very next moment. He wants to shake him just as much as he wants to be near him at all times, even when they bicker about things that never seem to matter five minutes later. He wants to _learn_ him.

It's sort of a marvelous feeling, if he's honest – and Elliot Nightray has always been a most hopeless liar.

This morning, they've opened all the windows of the parlor, tied back the curtains and let the golden swell of autumn sunlight flood in at every angle. In all the glorious brightness, Leo is a vision of sleepy dreaminess and coltish limbs dressed in too-big pajamas; maybe Elliot should scold him for not having been dressed at this time of day, but seeing as he hasn't bothered to do the same, he figures it a waste of breath. In any case, there's a certain charm in the way Leo's pale wrist winks up at him when the sleeve of his shirt billows, so all potential protestations are promptly put to rest.

"You take the lead," Leo says, smiling up at him behind the curtain of his bangs. For whatever stupid reason, Elliot wants to brush them away with the tips of his fingers and _look_ at him, but he won't. Because that's stupid (_wonky_, says his child's mind).

Adjusting himself on the piano bench – his shoulder brushes against Leo's arm, but it's not like he notices or anything – Elliot puffs out a disbelieving laugh and mutters, "You've never said that before."

"I figured it'd be a nice change." Smiling to himself, Leo soundlessly drags his fingertips along the expanse of white keys before him. His fingers are slim, white, and…well, they're pretty.

Elliot watches him for a moment longer before clearing his throat and saying, "How about we just…play the first thing that comes to our minds? At the same time, even. A perfect improvisation."

Leo lets out a light chirp of a laugh. It sounds nice, Elliot notes. He wishes he'd do it more often. "It sounds quite _im_perfect, by definition."

Elliot pretends to be annoyed at that and rolls his eyes, even as his fingers rest in preparation over his first chord. "Perhaps that's the point, though," he says. "To create perfection out of imperfection – no, to _embrace_ the imperfection for what it is, unaltered and honest all the…same…"

His voice trails off when he feels Leo's eyes on him again, and he flushes without warning, scoffing beneath his breath before turning his head and mumbling, "Never mind, I'll start – "

"No, that's a good idea, Elliot," Leo says suddenly. When he tacks on a quiet laugh to the end of his words, something happens to Elliot's stomach that reminds him of the stomach flu except pleasant. It's a horrible analogy, he thinks, but Leo has a tendency to make him forget how to construct a proper comparison, how to even _breathe_.

"W-Well then," Elliot says (and he did _not_ just stutter right then, absolutely did _not_), "shall we?"

"One – "

"Two – "

And on three, they play. For a moment, it's a clumsy mashup of chords that don't blend, notes that clash and jangle and ring out in all the wrong ways; but in the next moment, everything slows down, comes together, and falls into place. The song is soft and quiet, yet rich all the same, and Elliot's fingers brush against Leo's twice when their hands happen to meet in the middle. They're warm.

By the time they're finished, Leo is all but beaming, his bony shoulders bouncing in a winded chuckle as he wrings out his hands and looks up at Elliot. He's so bright in this moment that it's as if he caught the sun in his palms and dressed himself in it. Elliot catches a flash of his eyes, glinting and dark but no less enthralling, and a hard knot in his stomach begins to slowly unravel.

"That was nice," Leo says, a touch breathless. "Really, really nice. Rough at first, yes, but I liked that about it."

All Elliot can manage is a stunned nod of his head and a soft, "Me, too."

And Elliot – he thinks he'd very much like to kiss him right now. He thinks he'd like to tuck Leo's hair behind his ear, cup his cheek, and kiss him. Even just the corner of his mouth would suffice. He just wants to be close to him, here, in this quiet womb of light and music that bleed into each other and compose a language all their own. And maybe he'd pull back for a moment to see Leo's cheeks flushed a contented pink, his lips curled in a soft, knowing smile, and maybe Elliot would touch his shoulders and pull him back in for a real kiss, one with shuddering breaths and closed eyes and skipping heartbeats and -

Oh. But that's all rather _silly_, now isn't it.

/

v. parhelia

The piano in Isla Yura's mansion is a gaudy, out of tune disaster of dusty keys and creaking pedals, but Elliot plays it anyway. The notes still resonate enough to make sense. The chords still string together enough to make everything almost feel better.

In all actuality, though, nothing feels better – Vanessa is broken, just as he feared; his mother is a fractured and beautiful thing that can't hold onto reality; Leo is seeing red because of words he didn't mean; Gilbert is long gone even if he's just down the hall; Vincent is as distant and beguiling as ever; his brothers are dead and buried.

These are the things that no amount of music could ever fix. Elliot can't protect anything to save his life – not his mother from the claws of insanity, not his father from cold detachment, not Vanessa and not Leo and not _anyone_. But why? He has enough passion and fire to set this entire mansion ablaze with it, to burn down every awful thing that's ever fallen upon his family and set it right again. In theory, Elliot has enough heart to erase _everything_ horrible in the world, if only he could. If only he knew how or where to even begin.

Elliot strikes the lowest key with a hard drop of his finger, wincing at the ugly sound, before countering it with a quick flutter of the highest notes. The sound is tinny and soft and reminds him of rain, or of dark, somber eyes hidden behind a curtain of hair and a lens of glass.

Breath catching, Elliot drops his hand from the piano, and he looks up. Something is changing in the air, something heavy and consuming, but he'll be damned if he won't make everything better until then.

He needs to find Leo.

He needs to apologize.

/

vi. havelock

There's a piano bench in the middle of a warm, white room. Elliot Nightray, ageless and pure, sits at it with arms outstretched. He's awash in golden light, and he looks happy.

He has a song he needs to play. Is it a love song? He doesn't know. He's never quite known what to call these songs of his that sling from his fingertips and exhale as prettiness onto the air, but he thinks that's half the beauty of it to begin with. It burns beneath his skin and sinks deep down into his bones, fire-bright and ephemeral.

Smiling, Elliot stretches his fingers and presses at invisible keys hidden on the air. Music blooms and swirls on a dizzy stream of smoke, curling away into ash as the notes resonate and echo before fading out into silence. He huffs out a quiet laugh. It's a love song after all. Perhaps it always has been, now that he thinks about it.

Leo's face flashes through his mind, and he stops playing. Is he okay? Is he still holding on? Elliot can still feel him in faint breaths and catches, can still see him as if through a pane of foggy glass. He's just beyond the barrier, lingering just outside this white room. Elliot wants to reach out to him, and he would if he knew how. In time, he will. He knows he will.

Closing his eyes, Elliot lifts his head, breathes in, and listens.

He can hear them now – voices, soft voices – ringing out from all the gold. They're beckoning him home.


End file.
